


Unsound Mind

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robbie has flu, and he isn't the easiest of patients, as James discovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Corpore Insana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ComplicatedLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/gifts).



> Written for Complicatedlight's [prompt](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/164469.html?thread=3233909#t3233909) in the [_Running Hot III: Hotter Than Ever_ multi-fandom fever-fic prompt fest](http://ariadnes-string.livejournal.com/164469.html). With thanks, as always, to Lindenharp for BRing and ever-more-ingenious nagging, and to Uniquepov for encouragement.

James is in his flat, on a rare evening when work actually allowed him and Lewis to leave on time and, unusually, Lewis didn’t suggest a pint, instead bidding James a gruff goodnight at the station. He doesn’t mind; the band has a new piece which involves a lot of complicated fingering for him, and until tonight he’s not had time to practice.

His work mobile rings when he’s barely halfway through the score, and he curses, setting aside his guitar. Is one free evening too much to ask?

It’s not Dispatch, or Lewis. It’s not a number he recognises, though the area code – 0161 – is Manchester, isn’t it? “Hathaway,” he says, half-expecting it to be a wrong number.

“Is that James Hathaway?” The female voice is one that’s vaguely familiar, and he frowns, trying to remember. He confirms his identity, and the woman continues, sounding rushed and a bit panicky beneath her apologetic tone. “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, but I can’t get hold of my dad. He was expecting me to phone tonight, but he’s not answering his home or work phone, and I wondered if you’d mind terribly–”

The penny drops. “Are you Lyn Lewis?” he interrupts to ask.

“Oh! Yes. I’m sorry, I should have said. It’s just I’m–”

“Worried about your father. It’s quite all right.” James is already walking towards the dish where he automatically leaves his keys once he’s home. “I left him a little over two hours ago, and I believe he was heading straight home. But I’ll be happy to go over and check if it’ll put your mind at ease.”

“Thank you!” She does sound relieved. “Would you please phone me back regardless?”

“Of course.” He grabs a jacket – it’s a chilly January evening – and exits the flat, then jogs down the front path to where his car is parked. “Fifteen or twenty minutes at most.”

He ends the call as he gets into the car and starts the engine. It’s probably nothing – Lewis might have gone out for milk, or got trapped by his upstairs neighbour again, the one who always has some minor repair that needs doing and then talks his ear off for half an hour or so after. She’s lonely, Lewis says, and he doesn’t mind too much.

Though his boss did seem tired today; James can’t see him volunteering to help Mrs Aintree tonight unless it’s absolutely unavoidable.

Lewis’s car is in its usual parking space, and James parks right behind it. He has a spare key for his governor’s flat, given to him last year when Lewis spent two weeks in Canada, visiting an old friend who emigrated years ago. “Plants need looking after,” Lewis had said, pushing the key across the table at the White Horse. “You mind?”

He hadn’t – there are many unwritten aspects to a bagman’s duties, and he’d supposed that keeping an eye on his boss’s plants and flat were on the less onerous side of some of the extra-curricular tasks he’d been called on to perform over the years, more so before Lewis became his governor. Lewis hadn’t asked for the key back on his return; when James had offered, his inspector had said that him having a spare might come in handy one of these days.

And it does tonight, because several quite loud knocks on the door yield no response. 

He lets himself in, and very quickly finds out why. Lewis is on the sofa, still in his work suit. He’s half-lying, half-sitting, as if he just couldn’t hold himself upright any more. Although he’s breathing, he’s clearly not awake, and just as clearly not in the full bloom of physical health. The side of his face that’s visible is flushed, and when James lays the back of his hand against Lewis’s forehead he feels cool moisture. Definitely fever of some sort.

Right. First aid kit. If there isn’t one in Lewis’s bathroom, James has one in the car – standard police issue. But Lewis is well prepared, and a couple of minutes later James is sliding a thermometer carefully into his boss’s mouth.

38.5. Not dangerously high, but still above normal. And, judging by the way Lewis has evidently collapsed on his couch, he’s exhausted – after a fairly easy day at work. 

The cough starts as James is rinsing the thermometer, adding to the list of symptoms which, he’s pretty sure, are indicating flu rather than a mere cold. He heads back to the sofa and crouches down in front of his governor. “Sir? You need to be in bed.” The only response is a rather pathetic groan. “All right, sir,” James says. “Not expecting you to do it alone. Come along, up you get.” He slides an arm underneath Lewis’s shoulders and half-lifts, half-pushes him up into a seated position. 

It takes several attempts to get Lewis onto his feet, and from there it’s a lengthy and difficult progression to the bedroom; while Lewis has just enough motor skills and consciousness to shuffle along at James’s urging, he’s barely able to hold himself upright. “I sincerely hope you remember this when it’s time for my next performance review, sir,” James murmurs as, finally, they reach the bed and he can lower his governor gently down.

He’s just pulled Lewis’s shoes off when his phone rings again. Damn. He hasn’t phoned Lyn back. 

“I found him,” he tells her immediately, not giving her a chance to ask the question. “He’s sick – temperature 38.5, bad cough, feverish, semi-conscious. I’m thinking flu.”

“Sounds like it,” Lyn replies, immediately matter-of-fact, and it’s then James remembers that she’s a nurse. “What have you done so far?”

“Just got him to bed. I was going to see if I could get him to take some paracetamol.”

“That would work. Plenty of fluids, keep him warm – even if he’s burning up – and paracetamol every four hours. Don’t bother with anything other than water; he’s unlikely to keep it down if it’s a similar strain to what we’ve been dealing with at the Infirmary.” She hesitates then, but continues before James can ask what’s troubling her. “I’m so sorry, James. I just assumed that you’d stay and look after him, but the thing is that I don’t think he should be left alone, but he isn’t sick enough to go to hospital. They’d just send him home again.”

“That’s all right. I wasn’t intending to leave.” James glances over at his boss, who’s lying curled up on the bed, mumbling softly to himself. 

No, there’s no way he’d leave Lewis on his own like this. It’s not just that Lewis is his boss, though that would have been enough reason to stay. It’s that this is the man who’s forgiven him twice for the kind of behaviour anyone else would have had him reported and suspended over, and who ran into a burning building – risking his life – to rescue James. Not to mention, a few months ago, going well above and beyond loyalty to a colleague by finding James’s stolen guitar and helping him get it back. 

No-one has ever shown James Hathaway the kind of tolerance and caring that he’s had from Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis. In return, there is nothing James won’t do for Lewis.

He ends the call, promising to keep Lyn updated if there are changes for the worse, then takes off his jacket and starts the slow process of persuading his governor to let him undress him and put him to bed.

___________________________________________

Two hours later, Lewis finally seems to be sleeping, and James feels as if he’s just completed twenty rounds of circuit training.

He’s heard it mentioned numerous times since joining the police that dressing or undressing a corpse is extremely difficult, but was never completely convinced – until now. Lewis might not be dead, but once he was lying comfortably on his own bed his reactions were about as corpse-like as any James has encountered on the job. He did rouse briefly and allow James to coax him to take the paracetamol and drink some water, but that was far from straightforward either. James had to change a pillowcase and mop down the duvet after Lewis managed to knock the glass out of his hand, spilling water everywhere. And then, once he’d got Lewis into pyjamas and settled in bed, his boss kept kicking the covers off, too hot to bear them over himself. James had to apply cool cloths to his face and neck over and over to persuade him to stay still.

For the last quarter of an hour, though, Lewis hasn’t stirred, and his breathing’s quieter and more regular. James laid the back of his hand against Lewis’s forehead five minutes ago – very gently, hoping he wouldn’t wake the man – and his skin definitely felt cooler. He’s just made himself a coffee and settled himself in a kitchen chair that he’s brought into the bedroom, and he’s reading one of Lewis’s ridiculous spy thrillers by the light of the small bedside lamp.

“Please tell me you only read this drivel as a cure for insomnia, sir,” James murmurs a chapter in, looking across at Lewis and shaking his head. “Otherwise, I really will have to do something about your taste in literature.”

His phone beeps just as he’s debating going back to the living-room to look for another book. It’s a text from Lyn. _How is he? Any change?_

With a glance at Lewis to make sure he’s still sleeping, James pads out into the hall – his shoes make too much noise, so he’s taken them off – and phones Lyn. She’s relieved to know that her father is sleeping, but warns him that the worst is probably yet to come. “His temperature might increase, and if it hits 40 you need to get him to hospital. Otherwise, just try to keep him warm and dry and get lots of fluids into him.”

He promises to do his best, refraining from pointing out that her father is resistant to any attempt by James to give advice at the best of times. By her tone, though, he suspects that Lyn is aware that it won’t be an easy task. “Thank you, James.” The words sound heartfelt. “I hope he doesn’t run you ragged.”

He smiles faintly. “That’s his job, or so he assures me.”

Lyn laughs. “Sounds like my dad. I’m glad he’s got you, James. You’re good for him.”

“It’s really more the other way around,” James comments, feeling himself blush and glad that no-one’s around to see it.

“One of these days, when you’re not playing nurse to my dad, James, you and I need to talk.” She’s smiling, he can tell, but there’s a serious note to Lyn’s voice. “I was so worried about Dad when he came back to Oxford, but you’ve been brilliant with him.”

“Erm...” Embarrassed, he rubs the back of his neck. 

“Like I said, one of these days we’ll have to talk,” Lyn continues, ignoring his discomfort. “For now, if you don’t believe me, just think about how I know this. Anyway,” she adds briskly, “I’d better let you go. The paracetamol’s going to wear off soon and you’ll need all your energy to deal with him.”

Half an hour later, James finds out that Lyn wasn’t joking. Lewis is tossing and turning, thrashing around in the bed as he tries to throw the covers off. No sooner has James put them back in place than Lewis tears them off him again.

“Come on, sir; at least try to make an overworked bagman’s life easier.” James leans over his boss, murmuring in his ear as he once again straightens the duvet. 

“Hot... too bloody hot...” Lewis’s eyes are open and he appears to be staring straight at James, but James is pretty sure his governor isn’t even seeing him. Lewis picks at his pyjamas, seemingly trying to pull the jacket up and muttering in frustration when he can’t manage it. 

“Help me... get me clothes off, will ya?” The exasperated, demanding tone is one James knows well, and is conditioned to respond to – but not this time.

“No can do, sir.” He brushes Lewis’s hands away from the buttons of his pyjama jacket. “Come on, lie still. You don’t want me to get the handcuffs out, do you?”

Lewis’s hands, surprisingly strong, wrap around his wrists, preventing him from replacing the duvet again. “Not... my thing.” He breaks into a racking cough. “Bloody furnace... here.” 

The cough continues for longer than James likes, even though he pulls his hands away from his boss’s grip and supports Lewis by sitting behind him, holding him in a half-sitting position to ease his breathing. The man’s burning up; the pyjamas are soaking, and the sheets are getting damp.

It’s not time for more paracetamol yet, but he can at least get Lewis some more water – and a dry pair of pyjamas, if he can find any. He lowers Lewis to the pillow again. “Won’t be long, sir. Don’t go anywhere.”

___________________________________________

The pyjamas aren’t difficult to locate: bottom of the chest of drawers. James leaves them on the top. He’s learned his lesson from earlier; Lewis is not getting dry clothes until after James has got some water into him.

When he comes back from the kitchen, water this time in the travel mug he bought for Lewis a couple of Christmases ago and which Lewis has never used, the quilt is on the floor, his boss’s pyjamas thrown on top of it.

James’s gaze shoots up to the bed. Lewis is lying sprawled on his back, completely naked. Even the dark grey briefs, which James left on earlier, are gone.

“Bloody buggering _fuck_!” James takes a deep breath and considers the options. The priority is still water, so he ignores the bedding and lack of clothing for now and puts down the water while he gently but firmly pulls Lewis’s head and upper body up, sitting behind him to support him again. He holds the water to Lewis’s lips, fighting hard to ignore the voice in his head that’s calling to him. 

_Lewis is naked. I’m holding Lewis in my arms and he doesn’t have a stitch on._

Fuck. 

Lewis has an impressive physique for a man of his age, something James has seen glimpses of before. Oh, not lean and muscular; there’s the odd bulge here and there, hardly surprising given the man’s diet. He’s seen Lewis in various states of undress before, of course, most often in the gym – but never more than shirtless and in shorts. Earlier, when he undressed the man, he deliberately averted his gaze as far as possible. Now, he can’t _not_ see – and he can’t not _want_.

There’s considerable strength in those arms and legs, and Lewis’s chest is broad and powerful. James can’t help thinking that it would be nice... comforting... to be held against. No washboard stomach, but it’s not pudgy either. And lower down... 

_Stop it_. James tears his gaze away, refocusing on what he’s supposed to be doing. This is so very wrong. He’s supposed to be taking care of Lewis, not ogling him – even worse, ogling him without his consent, or even knowledge. Not to mention the fact that Lewis is involved, or tentatively trying to become involved, with Dr Hobson.

Lewis is trying to push the mug away now. James tests the weight, and concludes that he’s taken at least half. That’ll do for now. Gratefully, he lets Lewis down again, deciding to get some more cool cloths to mop off some of the fever-driven sweat before re-dressing his boss.

By the time he’s finished and Lewis is neatly covered up again, it’s time for another dose of paracetamol, which he expects to involve another wrestling match. This time, though, he’s taken by surprise; when he tells his boss firmly to take his medicine, Lewis leans up obediently and swallows the pills with a gulp of water, lying back down again afterwards with a “Thanks, man,” that’s barely more than a whisper.

Starting to get better? James hopes so, and reaches for the thermometer. 39. He sighs; looks like he’s in for another hour or so of fighting over the bedding and trying to cool his governor down. He just hopes Lewis has more than one spare pair of pyjamas.

___________________________________________

“Thirsty.”

Lewis is lying on his side, eyes open and looking at James, and the expression in them’s miserable. 

“All right.” He reaches for the mug and helps Lewis to raise his head. His boss winces. “Head hurts.”

“Ouch,” he murmurs sympathetically as Lewis drinks. “The paracetamol should kick in soon.”

“Cold.” Lewis’s voice is faint this time, and the word’s accompanied by a shudder. _Cold?_ But just an hour ago he was sweating buckets...

Right. Fever. Hot and cold. James lays his hand on Lewis’s forehead. It’s damp, and there’s sweat beaded there, but the skin’s clammy. “Cold,” Lewis repeats, and one hand sneaks out from under the quilt to pull it higher, covering his chin and half his face. 

“Better?” James asks.

Lewis nods, but after a few moments shakes his head. “Still... bloody freezing.”

“All right.” James stands and glances around the room. “Where do you keep the spare blankets?” He should have paid more attention on those nights he’d slept on Lewis’s couch. His boss had always just produced spare bedding from somewhere, and then the next morning told James to leave it on the couch; he’d put it away later.

“Hall... cupboard.” Lewis is definitely shivering. James strides out and to the cupboard, and quickly finds a blanket, which he brings back and spreads out on top of the quilt. His governor mumbles something, which might have been thanks, or could have been _what took you so long?_ Maybe now Lewis will sleep, and he can nap for an hour or so? Not on the couch, though. He’ll have to stay in the bedroom – and realising that sends him back out to the hall to grab a pillow and a second blanket, which he arranges on the chair.

He’s just closed his eyes when another unhappy moan comes from the bed. Sighing, James leans closer. “Sir?”

“Still cold.”

Still? James pulls a face and walks to the bed again. Damn it. Lewis appears to be shivering uncontrollably. He lays a hand on the man’s shoulder, on top of the quilt. “Hold on a sec, I’ll get the other blanket for you.”

Lewis’s hand emerges from under the covers and grips James’s. “Won’t be enough. Can’t... stop shiverin’...”

James squeezes Lewis’s hand. “I think I saw a spare duvet in that cupboard. Will that do?”

“Need...” Lewis halts; his teeth are chattering. “Body heat. Need you to... get in beside me.”

James freezes. Lewis can’t mean– But a sharp tug on his hand tells him that his boss is serious. _Shit_. If Lewis remembers any of this when he’s better, it’s going to be acutely embarrassing. Though getting into bed with him – at Lewis’s own request – doesn’t have as much potential to cause a rift between the two of them as what he was doing earlier, does it? 

“If you want that, I need my hand back, sir,” he points out. Lewis releases him, and James moves around to the other side of the bed. About to get in, he hesitates, then undoes his trousers and steps out of them. He considers removing his shirt as well; it’s skin to skin contact that’s most effective, after all. But Lewis isn’t in danger of becoming hypothermic, and he’d really rather not see his governor’s reaction to finding his sergeant in his bed dressed only in underwear.

He slides under the covers next to Lewis – and it’s hot as hell under here! Apart from the extra layer of blanket, Lewis, despite shivering, is still radiating heat. But he feels cold, and that’s what matters.

James reaches out an arm and wraps it around Lewis’s shoulders. Lewis mumbles something and rolls over, resting his head on James’s shoulder and his arm across James’s chest, and clings. James folds his other arm around Lewis, holding his boss close. Lewis lets out a faint sigh and moves closer still. It feels like he’s... James can only describe it as _snuggling_.

He yields to temptation and strokes his hand up and down Lewis’s back, justifying it by telling himself that he’s helping to warm his boss up. And it seems to be working; a few minutes later, Lewis’s breathing evens out. He’s finally asleep.

___________________________________________

Something – or someone’s – nuzzling at his neck.

James awakens with a jolt and looks down. Christ. It is Lewis. His governor is pressed against his side, from shoulder to mid-calf, and his face is buried in James’s neck. 

Should he move away and risk waking Lewis, with all the questions that will cause? Or just stay still, pretend he’s still asleep and wait for Lewis to fall asleep again?

He doesn’t get a chance to decide. Lewis moves, stretching up, and his lips find James’s. It’s an awkward kiss at first, with noses colliding and Lewis getting the corner of his mouth. But before James can react, Lewis is back, finding just the right position, kissing him properly: lingering, with soft pressure and just the faintest hint of tongue.

Only a saint could resist that, and James is no saint. With a groan, he returns the pressure, kissing back, while part of him wonders if he’s dreaming. He has to be. Lewis kissing _him_? He’s fantasised about it enough, true, but never dared to imagine that it would happen. And even in his fantasies, it never felt this good.

Lewis ends the kiss, his lips gliding softly along James’s jaw. “Nice, pet,” he murmurs. Then his entire body relaxes again, and a faint snore breaks the silence in the bedroom.

James’s entire body goes rigid, while his brain is a mass of conflicting thoughts. Above all, one word replays over and over. Pet. Pet. Petpetpet... Did Lewis think he was in bed with someone else? He must have. Pet. That’s what he calls... well, his daughter, but he wouldn’t have kissed Lyn like that. A woman he’s in love with? _Shit_. Lewis has been seeing Dr Hobson. He must have imagined...

Or, worse still, his wife. Fuck, that’s it, isn’t it? He’s sick. Feverish. He’s delirious... and he thought the body in his arms was Val. And James kissed him back. And enjoyed it.

Could there be a worse way for him to have betrayed Lewis? 

Lewis is definitely asleep again, and he’s not shivering any more. Carefully, trying not to disturb him, James removes his arms from around his boss and slides to the edge of the bed, then gets out. He stands for a moment, watching his boss sleep and trying to shut out the tape in his brain which is replaying the kiss in cinematic-quality images, then closes his eyes and swallows.

Forcing his breathing to calm, he thinks. He can’t get that close to Lewis again. Now that he knows what it’s like to hold the man, to kiss him, the temptation’s too great. But what if Lewis starts shivering again, or goes back to throwing the covers off because he’s too hot? What if making him drink is as difficult as before? It’s too intimate, and if Lewis had any idea what James really feels for him he’d never want him here taking care of him.

He prays with silent desperation. 

“ _Soram te gemens peccator assisto._  
 _Noli, Mater Verbi, verba mea despicere;_  
 _sed audi propitia et exaudi.”_

Then, with sudden resolve, he strides back around the bed to where his mobile sits on Lewis’s bedside cabinet, and selects a number he probably should have called when he’d first found Lewis almost passed out on his sofa.

“Hello, Dr Hobson... Yes, I’m well aware that it’s barely five in the morning... Could you come over to Inspector Lewis’s flat? ...Yes, it’s important. Thank you.”

Call ended, he returns to the bedroom to collect his clothes, and dresses quickly in the living-room. Once Hobson gets here, she can take over, and he can go home and hope (and pray) that Lewis doesn’t remember any of this – or if he does, that he assumes it was Hobson all along.

And he’ll have to find a way to block from his memory the best kiss he’s ever had – and the fact that it wasn’t even intended for him. Because if he can’t, then working with Lewis from now on is going to be impossible.

___________________________________________

_tbc_


	2. Mens Insana

By the time James gets home, having stammered out a barely-coherent excuse to Dr Hobson about needing to get into work early and Lewis needing a trained eye kept on him, it’s not worth going to bed. Not that he’d be able to sleep, anyway. His traitorous brain keeps replaying that kiss over and over. 

Life’s a bitch that way, isn’t it? Things he wouldn’t mind remembering, such as the viva for his undergraduate dissertation, or his interview before being accepted into the seminary, are little more than a blur. And things he would much prefer to forget, such as the times DI Knox held him up to ridicule in front of their team for something he’d said, or that time Innocent threatened to bust him down to uniform – or, now, Lewis’s kiss – will play on continuous repeat, in Technicolour perfection, whenever it would be most embarrassing or humiliating for him.

He makes coffee, at twice his usual strength, and takes it and his cigarettes outside; he prefers not to smoke in the flat if he can help it. Just because he enjoys the taste of cigarettes, that doesn’t mean he likes the smell of stale tobacco. It’s still dark, and very chilly – even with his long wool-mix overcoat, he’s quickly close to shivering, and gloves don’t work very well with cigarettes. He starts to pace up and down the road, then decides to walk around the block in case any eagle-eyed neighbours wonder why someone’s lurking outside their house.

Lewis wasn’t properly awake. He wasn’t aware of what he was doing, James has to believe that. He obviously thought he was in bed with someone else. The problem will arise when he does wake up properly: if he then remembers kissing someone, what then?

The best outcome would be if he assumes it was Hobson. She’ll be there when he wakes, and he won’t have any reason to think anyone else might have been there – and certainly not in bed with him. 

But then if he says anything to Hobson... shit, shit, she’ll tell him that she’s not the one who was with him most of the night. Bugger. _Fuck. Futuo_ – how come profanities never sound quite as... profane... in Latin? Though that could come in useful... He dismisses the irrelevant thought and returns to the present conundrum.

What if James were to phone Hobson and confess all, and ask her to keep shtum? She might. But, on the other hand... No, she’ll either be far too amused and will never let him forget it, with subtle and not-so-subtle reminders at crime scenes and post-mortems for years to come, or she’ll be upset or maybe jealous that Lewis is kissing someone other than her – and another man, at that. Maybe even distressed on Lewis’s behalf, because he’s not attracted to men and would most likely be disturbed at the knowledge that he’d kissed a bloke – and not just any bloke, but his irritating sod of a bagman. 

Though... no. Lewis would find it embarrassing, yes, but it wouldn’t be the first time an incident had caused embarrassment for one or other of them. They’d got past it before – usually more easily for Lewis, who would shrug it off with a sheepish grin. This is different, though. Lewis can shrug off the embarrassment of kissing someone when sick and half-asleep, but neither of them can shrug off the knowledge that James – when neither sick nor half-asleep – kissed him back.

And there’s the rub. 

He kissed Lewis back. In full knowledge of who was kissing him and that he’s probably the last person his boss would have kissed were he in full possession of his senses. 

So, if Lewis does remember, that’s why the outcome will be far worse than mere embarrassment. 

James drops his cigarette to the ground and stamps on it, then blows on his hands to warm them up before lighting another. 

There’s no escaping it. If Lewis does remember, it’ll be time for another career-change. Just as he was finding that he liked this one – or, at least, some of the company he got to keep in the course of this career. 

Speaking of which... He checks his watch. After six; time to get ready for work. After all, he’ll be holding the fort on his own today, without his preferred company, won’t he? 

“Thank you very much, sir,” he mutters, lips turned down, as he increases his pace heading back to his flat. A day working on two people’s case reports and CPS documentation, without even the promise of a pint at the end of it. And all on less than two hours’ sleep.

But Lewis kissed him. Whatever the fallout from that might be – and he tells himself that he’ll deal with it if and when it happens, not before – Lewis _kissed him_ , and it was sublime. 

And it will never happen again.

___________________________________________

By eleven, James’s desk is piled high with folders, and he has more windows open on his computer than his taskbar has room to display. Overdue case reports, CPS paperwork, performance reviews for the DCs and his own self-appraisal for Lewis, and he’s making substantial progress on all of them. Innocent, who came to check in on him a short while ago, even joked that clearly DI Lewis’s absence was having a positive impact on his productivity.

He chose not to tell her that what was impacting his productivity was the need to block out the events of last night. It’s working – as long as he keeps working. If he stops, even for a few seconds, the high-definition DVD in his brain starts playing again. 

He’s just finishing off Hooper’s review – _strengths in procedure and has good instincts when he focuses enough to follow them; a little less work time spent on gossiping would make a significant difference_ – when his phone rings.

A quick glance at the screen shows him that it’s Dr Hobson. His stomach clenches. He’s tempted to ignore it, but immediately thinks better of that impulse. Never a good idea to ignore someone who knows how to use a bone saw, and how to kill someone without leaving any forensic clues.

With a sigh, he picks up the phone. “Good morning, Dr Hobson.” 

“Good morning, Sergeant Hathaway.” As expected, there’s a bite in Hobson’s voice. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d lost my number – but then I realised how unlikely that was, given that you managed to wake me up two hours before my alarm this morning.”

“I... um, I was about to phone,” he says. It’s not entirely a lie; he’s been aware that he should phone her for an update on Lewis’s condition, but just couldn’t face doing it. “How is he?”

Immediately, she switches into professional mode. “Sleeping at the moment. You were right that he isn’t sick enough to go to hospital, but he can’t be left alone, either. His temperature is still higher than I’m happy about, and he’s been on the edge of delirium a couple of times.”

“That... doesn’t sound good.” Delirium? _Merda_ , what has he been saying?

“It’s perfectly normal for this strain of flu, Hathaway. He mumbled your name a couple of times, but I wouldn’t think anything of it. He was clearly thinking about Val as well, or maybe Lyn – I’m pretty sure he said _pet_ , as well as a couple of other things that I’m sure would embarrass him thoroughly were I to remind him when he’s better.” He’s pretty sure that Hobson is smiling.

“Good blackmail material, then?” His hand tightens involuntarily around the phone. Lewis can’t have said anything about kissing anyone, please. 

“Always handy,” Hobson says with sardonic amusement. “As are favours owed, Sergeant,” she adds pointedly.

“Yes, I’m well aware that I owe you one for this,” he concedes. “Several, most probably.” Just, please, not for one particular blackmail possibility...

“Indeed. I had to get my assistant to bring my laptop and overdue paperwork here. You’re not the only one who’s too busy to take time off work, James.”

He swallows. “Yes, Doctor. I’m sorry. If there’d been anyone else–”

“It’s all right,” she says at once, now reassuring. “You did the right thing. I’d say you should have phoned me last night when you found him, except that you seem to have done a good job in the interim.” Without giving him time to respond, she adds, “I’ll expect you back here to take over as soon as you’re off-duty.”

Damn it, he hadn’t thought of that. Of course she can’t stay with Lewis around the clock – although why not? Aren’t they seeing each other? But the way the good doctor is talking, it doesn’t sound like it, and really, all James has to go on is the fact that they’d intended to spend a weekend together at Glyndebourne. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything, especially as he hasn’t been aware of any other dates, hasn’t overheard any personal phone conversations or intercepted significant glances.

She’s expecting an answer from him, so he promises to be there by six. That gives him seven hours to find someone else he can send instead. Someone he can trust, and who won’t be ordered out on sight by his governor. He smothers a hysterical laugh as he fans out the DCs’ personnel folders. Definitely not someone from the team, then.

He wonders how Lyn would react if he phoned to say her dad needs her here.

___________________________________________

In the end, he’s spared a second night of nursing duty. Hobson phones again just as he’s leaving the station to tell him that Lewis’s temperature has dropped more than a degree and all he now needs is plenty of fluids and sleep. If James can check on him later in the evening, and again in the morning, that will be enough.

He procrastinates, going home to get changed and eat, and then driving over to Sainsbury’s to buy fruit juice, paracetamol and cans of soup before heading to Lewis’s flat. By the time he arrives, it’s not far off nine, and the flat is in darkness. 

“Hello? Sir?” he calls, but not too loudly. If Lewis is asleep, he’d prefer not to wake him, for more reasons than one. No response. He sets the soup cans on the counter and moves quietly towards the bedroom. 

The door’s ajar and the bedside lamp is still on. But the figure in the bed, now covered by the quilt with no additional blankets, is still. And after a moment, James hears a loud snore, followed fairly quickly by a second one.

“Oh, your poor wife, sir,” James murmurs with a grin. He tiptoes into the bedroom and sets the paracetamol and fruit juice on the bedside cabinet, then goes back to the kitchen to get a clean glass. Lewis is still sound asleep when he returns. James exhales, long and silent, and leaves the flat. He’s had a lucky escape. 

The only problem is that he still can’t escape the DVD in his head. He sleeps well – hardly surprising after a night in which he barely had any sleep – but the memories of holding a naked Lewis in his arms, and of kissing his boss, are there when he goes to bed, and again when he wakes up, leaving him flushed and mortified. 

With gritted teeth and shaking hands, he drives over to Lewis’s again on his way to work. This time, there’s a light on in the kitchen as he slows down to turn into the small car park. He knocks instead of using his key. It’s a minute or so before he hears the lock turning, and the door opens to reveal his boss, looking tired and pale-faced, wrapped in a warm dressing-gown. 

“James! Em... come in.” Lewis steps back, pulling the door open wide.

James doesn’t move, and he digs his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, clenching his fists. “I don’t want to bother you, sir. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t need anything.”

“It’s not a bother. Come in and have a coffee, at least, man!” Lewis gives him an impatient look, which sits strangely on the man’s exhausted face. It’s hard to picture this man kissing him, and yet James would happily hug and kiss Lewis right now if it would make his boss feel better in the slightest. Not that it would; the shock would probably kill him.

“No. Thank you. I... there’s a lot of paperwork piled on my desk and the sooner I get to it the happier Innocent will be.” 

“Hope you’re not doing my work as well as yours,” Lewis says, then yawns noisily. “I’ll be in tomorrow. Just do your own reports and leave the rest.”

“Tomorrow?” James stares at him. “With all due respect, sir, you look like a gust of wind would blow you over. You should be in bed.”

Lewis shakes his head with an eye-roll that says, as clearly as if he’d articulated the words, _Don’t fuss_. “Heading there now, if you’re not stayin’. It’s only a forty-eight hour bug, though. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

James has his doubts. “Don’t come in before you’re ready, sir. I can hold the fort.” And it would put off any confrontation a little bit longer. Though he just wishes he knew what Lewis remembers, if anything.

Lewis yawns again, and reaches out to the wall, clearly to steady himself. “If you’re not comin’ in, then take yourself off. If I stand here any longer, you’ll be havin’ to carry me to bed, and I don’t think your back would survive the attempt.”

James is pretty sure that he could manage, especially considering the other night, but discretion wins over pride and he doesn’t comment. “Right, sir. I’ll be off. If you need anything...” He holds up his phone.

Lewis grunts and shuts the door. 

He seemed just like his normal self, James tells himself as he drives to the station. Well, other than being sick, of course. Grumpy, with what James likes to consider his usual fond exasperation. That doesn’t seem like the behaviour of someone who remembers what happened the night before last. 

He’s had a lucky escape, it seems. Lewis doesn’t remember a thing. 

His heart several kilos lighter, James jogs up the stairs at the nick and into their shared office, more positively disposed towards the world than he’s been for the past twenty-six hours. As he boots his computer, he reflects that he might even soften his comments on Hooper’s appraisal; after all, the bloke’s not _that_ bad.

___________________________________________

At home that evening, James is poking through his fridge, trying to work up some enthusiasm for the risotto left over from yesterday – and procrastinating over phoning Lewis. Yes, Lewis as good as told him not to fuss, but regardless he needs to check in and make sure his boss doesn’t need anything.

He closes the fridge. Risotto really isn’t appealing right now. Cheese on toast? Poached egg? Pizza?

A knock at the door interrupts his indecision, and with a muttered curse he goes to answer it. Canvassers, no doubt – there’s a council by-election in his ward. But it might not be, so he can’t ignore it.

It isn’t. It’s Lewis, in a Newcastle United zip-up sweatshirt under his winter anorak, and looking actually quite a bit better than he did this morning. And he’s carrying a plastic bag that looks suspiciously like it came from a Chinese takeaway they’ve frequented a time or two.

“Sir! Are you sure you should be–”

“Ah, stop your nagging, man, and let me in. Bloody nippy out here.”

It is; there’s been a sharp east wind for most of the day, and James was grateful to be on desk work rather than out at crime scenes or chasing down witnesses. He steps back immediately, even though what he wants to do is find an excuse to send Lewis away. “Of course.”

Lewis follows him in and, once they’re in the open-plan kitchen and living area, raises the bag he’s carrying. “Take it you haven’t eaten?”

James’s stomach growls. The scents coming from the bag are making his mouth water. “Tell me that’s beef in ginger.”

“And lemon chicken, and I got fried rice as well as noodles.” Lewis sets the food on the counter. “Plates?” he prompts.

“Of course.” James sets plates and cutlery on the breakfast bar, leaving Lewis to open the foil containers. His gut’s starting to churn. Why is Lewis here? Not just to bring his sergeant dinner. Not just because he’s bored, or fed up with being cooped up inside his flat, surely? “But are you sure you should be here at all, sir? You’re–”

“Better,” Lewis cuts in. “And if you won’t take my word for it, take Laura’s. She dropped in this afternoon, took me temperature, checked me breathing and several other things I’d rather not have had to suffer. Says I’m fine and wants me back at work so I can come and get the test results that are piling up on her desk.” He pauses to chew a mouthful of beef. “Dunno why she couldn’t have asked you to pick them up.”

James shrugs. “No idea. Didn’t know there were any waiting.”

“So what have you been doing, then?”

Safe ground. James allows himself a silent sigh of relief, and details the reports, performance reviews and other paperwork he’s cleared over the past couple of days. Lewis seems happy, even going so far as to pat James on the back and declare him the report-writer in chief; James asks how that’s any different from usual. 

It’s all completely normal. Nothing’s changed; there’s no awkwardness. Lewis clearly doesn’t remember. Everything’s fine.

And then Lewis says, with no warning, “Got a bone to pick with you.”

And James’s heart sinks. He does remember. 

_Coleones_. He just restrains the impulse to swear aloud – even in Latin, it’ll reveal far too much to a brilliant investigator like Lewis.

He takes another bite of food to delay the need to respond, and finally asks, “What might that be, sir?”

“Well...” Lewis pauses, and also takes another forkful of his lemon chicken. James knows damn well that it’s deliberate. “S’pose, really, I should start by thankin’ you. You didn’t have to stay when you came over the other evening and found me all but passed out. You took good care of me, an’ that’s far beyond the call of duty. The sort of thing a mate’d do, I suppose. An’ I appreciate it.”

James shrugs, embarrassed at being thanked given what he did. “Don’t mention it, sir.”

Lewis ignores his interjection. “But then you left.”

“I...” He flounders, then tries an excuse. “Needed to get to–”

“And as if walking out on me wasn’t bad enough, you left me to Laura’s tender mercies!”

James blinks. “She’s a doctor! And, besides, you and she...” He trails off, not entirely sure how to describe his governor’s relationship with Dr Hobson. Lewis hasn’t been particularly welcoming of his teasing on the subject.

“There’s a reason why all her patients are dead.” Lewis’s tone is deadpan, but there’s a twinkle in his eyes. “And... me an’ her...?” He shakes his head. “Nah. She’s a friend. Decided it was best to leave it at that.”

If Lewis is expecting him to comment on that, he’ll be waiting a long time. There are far too many ways he could crash and burn. 

But it appears a contribution from him isn’t expected. Lewis glances his way again and says, one eyebrow raised, “But back to you walking out on me – didn’t think you were the type to kiss and run.”

James starts to feel cold, and there’s a sick sensation in his stomach. _Shit. Fuck. Ego sum perfututum_.

“See, I thought for a while that you left because you were... I dunno, disgusted? Offended? I mean, I’m not exactly someone you’d fancy, even if you’re into blokes.” Now, Lewis is frowning, but the expression in his eyes isn’t judgemental, or accusing. It’s... worried? Yes. Concerned and kind. Which doesn’t make any sense to James. “But the more I think about it, the more I’m sure I remember you kissin’ me back. So I don’t think you’re feelin’ insulted. Maybe embarrassed, an’ not sure how we can get back to normal?”

Most of Lewis’s words aren’t making any sense at all – why should James be the one who’s offended or disgusted? But the last part is something he can work with. James grabs onto the olive branch, if that’s what it is. “Yeah. But it’s not a problem. I mean, I can forget it, if you can?”

“Hmm.” Lewis is still looking straight at him, and it’s more than disconcerting. “Not sure I can, man. Not convinced you can, either.”

“What?” James’s voice is almost a squeak, and he winces. “Why do you say that?”

Lewis turns his entire body towards James, and he leans closer. James can feel himself start to sweat. This must be how suspects feel when they have to face DI Lewis across the interrogation table. And he’s not convinced that he’ll be able to withstand the Lewis genius any better than the majority of their suspects do. 

“Because I remember you kissin’ me back,” Lewis says softly, and his tone has dropped a notch. “And I see how you’re lookin’ at me now.”

All the curses he’s ever known, in living or dead languages, fly through his brain. If he could escape through the floor of the flat, he would. “I... I suppose it wouldn’t help if I apologised, sir?”

Lewis’s eyes widen. “What for? I’m the one who kissed you. If apologies are needed...”

“You were sick, sir. Delirious. You didn’t know what you were doing. I knew that, and I knew you weren’t... attracted to men, let alone me. I knew you had to believe you were with y– someone else. Yet I still kissed you back. I... took advantage of you when you weren’t in your right mind.” James stares down at the counter. “My resignation will be on your desk first th–” 

“Don’t talk rubbish, James.” His tone makes James look up sharply. Lewis is practically rolling his eyes. “You’re not resigning – unless you really want to. An’ as for the rest... I knew what I was doing. Well, mostly. Never imagined it was anyone other than you.” Lewis shakes his head, mouth turned down at the corners. “It’s not anything I thought I’d ever do, and it was only wakin’ up an’ finding you next to me... Doesn’t mean I had a problem with it, or wouldn’t consider doin’ it again if you were up for it.”

James’s innards are playing up again, but this time his stomach’s fluttering and his heart’s beating at what feels like twice the normal rate. Did Lewis really just say...? But the way his governor’s looking at him, with that mixture of fondness and exasperation and something in his eyes that suggests _more_ than fondness, makes clear that his ears weren’t deceiving him.

They’re sitting very closely already, their knees almost touching. But it’s not close enough. James leans in, watching Lewis carefully; there’s nothing but encouragement in the man’s face. Slowly, giving Lewis every opportunity to stop him – an opportunity that’s not taken – James brings his lips to Lewis’s and claims a kiss. 

Lewis lets him take the lead for only a few moments, before wrapping a hand around the back of James’s neck and bringing the two of them even closer together as he takes control of the kiss – or, rather, the series of short, nibbling kisses and nips, gradually becoming longer and more intimate until both their lips are parted and tongues are becoming acquainted. By the time they pull apart, James is breathless and his stomach’s turning somersaults.

Lewis gives him a crooked, almost sheepish grin. “Nice though this is, these high chairs aren’t doing my back any good. Couch?”

“Couch,” James agrees.

___________________________________________

More kissing in a comfortable setting is definitely good, but it’s not long before James finds that he needs answers more than he needs kisses. He pulls back to look at Lewis, who looks back at him with an eyebrow raised.

“Never known anyone who thinks so bloody much as you. Your mind’s been going like the clappers all the time we’ve been sitting here, hasn’t it? If it was anyone but you, I’d be offended.”

James offers an apologetic grimace, but Lewis waves a dismissive hand. “Like I said, it’s you. An’ you’re not gonna be happy until you’ve said your piece, so go on. I’m listening.”

He needs a deep breath first, but then James goes for it. “I still don’t understand – why me? Apart from anything else, you’re not gay–”

“Could ask you the same question,” Lewis interrupts. “Why me? Why anyone, ever? Because there’s attraction there. An’ more than that, with us. Isn’t there?” The gentle blue eyes meet his, and James has to nod. Of course it’s true. It’s been true almost as long as they’ve known each other. “As for sexuality, you’re a fine one to talk. You’re the one who pointed out to me that it’s not as simple as one thing or the other.”

Lewis is right, and James acknowledges it with a sheepish smile. “I was attracted to blokes years ago,” Lewis continues. “Never did anything about it, an’ then Val came along an’ that was that. But I remembered after that conversation we didn’t have about sexuality–” He gives James a mocking smirk. “–and it occurred to me that maybe I’m a bit of both ways too.” The smile turns self-mocking. “Can’t say I was that chuffed to be having a mid-life sexual identity crisis, especially in the middle of a murder investigation, but I’m not sorry I figured it out.”

James has to kiss him for that confession, and for the next few minutes they’re too busy for more conversation. Then James has to say, “I’m glad you came over tonight, sir. I would never have had the courage to talk to you about what happened. I was hoping you wouldn’t remember.”

“Noticed you were avoiding me,” Lewis says dryly. “I was afraid you really didn’t want this with me. You were in such a hurry to get away from me this morning, I was having visions of coming back to work and finding you’d asked Innocent to assign you to another DI.”

“Never, sir. Well, unless it was what you wanted.”

Lewis’s hand covers James’s. “I don’t, you daft sod. And speakin’ of daft, callin’ me sir while we’re snogging?”

It’s James’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “For all I know, you might like it.” Lewis’s drawn brows makes clear what he thinks of that suggestion. James grins. “Robbie, then.”

“Better. Though what’d be better still’d be if you stop flapping your tongue an’ kiss me.”

James grins, then proceeds to show Robbie how he can kiss and flap his tongue at the same time – to the great satisfaction of both of them. 

And if they both start feeling feverish after a while, it’s got nothing to do with the flu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _James’s Latin curses:_
> 
>  
> 
>  _Coleones:_ bollocks  
>  _Ego sum perfututum:_ I’m totally fucked  
>  _Futuo:_ fuck  
>  _Merda:_ shit

**Author's Note:**

> James’s prayer:
> 
>  
> 
> _Before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful._  
>  _O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions,_  
>  _but in thy mercy hear and answer me._
> 
>  
> 
> from _The Memorare_ , traditional Catholic prayer to the Virgin Mary.


End file.
